“Is it necessary?”

“In your case, yes.  We want to make you a person of importance.”

So at last Molyneux agreed, and they started for London in the evening; the big, shrew, farmer-looking man being as pleased as a child to have certain signs and passwords confided to him.  Brand made light of these things—­and, in fact, they were only such as were used among the outsiders; but Molyneux was keenly interested, and already pictured himself going through Europe and holding this subtle conversation with all the unknown companions whom chance might throw in his way.

But long ere he reached London the motion of the train had sent him to sleep; and George Brand had plenty of time to think over that letter, and to guess at what possible intention might lie under its plausible phrases.  He had leisure to think of other things, too.  The question of money, for example—­about which Molyneux had been so curious with regard to this association—­was one on which he himself was but slightly informed, the treasury department being altogether outside his sphere.  He did not even know whether Lind had private means, or was enabled to live as he did by the association, for its own ends.  He knew that the Society had numerous paid agents; no doubt, he himself could have claimed a salary, had it been worth his while.  But the truth is that “dibs” concerned him very little.  He had never been extravagant; he had always lived well within his income; and his chief satisfaction in being possessed of a liberal fortune lay in the fact that he had not to bother his head about money.  There was one worry the less in life.

But then George Brand had been a good deal about the world, and had seen something of human life, and knew very well the power the possession of money gives.  Why, this very indifference, this happy carelessness about pecuniary details, was but the consequence of his having a large fund in the background that he could draw on at will.  If he did not overvalue his fortune, on the other hand he did not undervalue it; and he was about the last man in the world who could reasonably have been expected to part with it.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A TALISMAN.

Natalie Lind was busy writing at the window of the drawing-room in Curzon Street when Calabressa entered, unannounced.  He had outstripped the little Anneli; perhaps he was afraid of being refused.  He was much excited.

“Forgive me, signorina, if I startle you,” he said, rapidly, in his native tongue; “forgive me, little daughter.  We go away to-night, I and the man Kirski, whom you saved from madness:  we are ordered away; it is possible I may never see you again.  Now listen.”

He took a seat beside her; in his hurry and eagerness he had for the moment abandoned his airy manner.

“When I came here I expected to see you a school-girl—­some one in safe-keeping—­with no troubles to think of.  You are a woman; you may have trouble; and it is I, Calabressa, who would then cut off my right hand to help you.  I said I would leave you my address; I cannot.  I dare not tell any one even where I am going.  What of that?  Look well at this card.”